The Wedding Date. Jennifer Joyce
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them your bag.’
No chance. I’ve got my phone in there with the photos from The Saturdays concert Lauren and I went to. I should really get them printed off but I never get round to it. Until I do, the muggers can jog on.
‘Ooh, looks nasty but I think you’ll be ok. We’ll clean it up and put a plaster on.’ Adam smiles at me and I get a bit fluttery in the tummy. Adam Sinclair is more than little bit gorgeous. Before he joined the company as head of social media six months ago, the office was complete dullsville – but it’s funny just how much a handsome face can brighten a place up.
‘You don’t think I need stitches or anything?’ Being patched back together with a needle and thread isn’t a pleasant thought but at least a trip to the hospital will get me out of work for an hour or two. More if A&E’s packed to the rafters.
‘No, I don’t think you’ll need stitches.’ Adam turns to Katey-Louise, who immediately begins fluttering her unnaturally long eyelashes (they really are unnatural. She has them glued to her peepers once a week) and sticks out her chest. Floozy. ‘Can you grab the first aid kit?’
Katey-Louise blinks at him, but in a confused rather than flirtatious manner this time. ‘The first aid kit?’
‘Yep. Green box? Has plasters and bandages in it?’
‘I know what it is.’ Katey-Louise taps Adam playfully on the arm. ‘But where is it?’
‘You don’t know where the first aid kit is?’ Adam rises to his feet, frowning at Katey-Louise when she shakes her head. ‘You’re the office’s first aider. You’re supposed to know where the first aid kit is. It’s your responsibility!’
Katey-Louise steps back, her bottom lip wobbling. ‘Don’t shout at me. It isn’t my fault.’
Adam opens his mouth, then shuts it again. I don’t blame him. There’s no point trying to reason with Katey-Louise. Nothing is ever her fault. Or her responsibility, come to that. As the boss’s daughter, she thinks she can coast through life looking cute and pouting. Which is proving to be true. With no qualifications, experience or knowledge of what the job entails, Katey-Louise is head of marketing at Brinkley’s. It’s a wonder the company hasn’t gone under.
And the nepotism doesn’t stop with Katey-Louise. The whole office – apart from me and Adam – is made up of Brinkleys, from Managing Director Neville Brinkley and his wife Denise, to offspring, Katey-Louise and Jasper. Jasper is head of IT, which is just as laughable as Katey-Louise’s role. Jasper doesn’t know anything IT-related beyond Facebook and Minesweeper. He’s currently sat at his desk, headphones planted over his ears as he clicks away at the Minesweeper grid, grunting every time he clicks on a mine.
I didn’t even realise people still played Minesweeper until Jasper joined our team.
‘Do you know what?’ Adam had stalked across the office, but he’s returning now with the green plastic box. ‘It is your fault. Your dad sent you on that first aid course. The one you asked him to.’
‘That’s because I wanted to go to Liverpool for a few days. One Direction were playing at The Echo Arena and my friend Tansy-Mae managed to get tickets. They were sold out in Manchester.’ Katey-Louise says this as though it explains everything; her dad paying for the course and accommodation (we couldn’t have Katey-Louise travelling there and back daily on the train, could we?) and her return without any first aid knowledge whatsoever.
‘Just make yourself useful and go and make Delilah a cup of tea.’ Adam plonks the green box on my desk and opens it up while Katey-Louise stands there, open-mouthed. I don’t think she knows where the kettle is either.
‘Maybe you could bring me a biscuit too? Sugar is good for shock.’ Yes, I am milking this scraped knee for everything it’s worth. It isn’t every day I’m treated with kindness in the office.
‘Good idea.’ Adam looks at me, his lips twitching. He’s the only decent one in the office. He doesn’t have any authority, which is a shame, but it’s nice having somebody on my side.
‘I think a Fudge Sundae would be best,’ I say. They’re my favourite of the Brinkley’s brand and as rare as hen’s teeth in the Brinkley’s office. Neville is loath to give out freebies – we’re only given a bag of seconds at Christmas.
‘Dad isn’t going to be happy.’ Katey-Louise is calculating whether to do my bidding; to give in and serve me would be humiliating, but the pleasure of telling her dad that I’ve been wolfing the stock is tempting. She decides landing me in it is the better option and slinks away in search of the kettle and biscuits.
‘Where is Neville?’ The office is oddly empty, with only the four of us present (although Jasper may as well not be here). ‘And Denise?’
‘Neville’s gone to that brand-building conference, though I think it’s just an excuse for a jolly.’ Adam lifts a flap of my tights and I hiss again. ‘Sorry. I think I’m going to have to cut away a bit of your tights. You don’t mind, do you?’ I shake my head. They’re ruined anyway. ‘Denise is over at the development kitchen. They’re almost ready with the new line.’
Which means Denise is stuffing herself with delicious new biscuits.
‘Are you ready?’ Adam has a small pair of scissors hovering over my tights. I nod, thankful I shaved my legs before going to the pub last night.
Francesca Holden (soon-to-be Radcliffe)
Text Message:
Francesca: Hello, darling! It’s been soooooo long since I saw you! Let’s meet up soon!
Delilah: I’m free at the weekend
Francesca: This weekend is no good for me – Jeremy is whisking me away to Venice!
Delilah: The weekend after?
Francesca: Also difficult! I have a client meeting on the Saturday and a christening on the Sunday. Sorry!
Delilah: No problem. Let me know when you’re free and we’ll meet up
Francesca: I’ll have a good look through my diary and let you know!
You’d think falling bum-over-boob onto the pavement would be the low point of my day, but you’d be wrong. There is far worse to come and this Monday will forever be known as The Worst Monday Ever. At least to me.
With my cut knee now clean and covered in a plaster, I’ve spent the morning working my way through my in-tray, which is as boring as it sounds and isn’t helped by my raging hangover. With my thumping head and throbbing knee, my body is now a one-man-band of drumming.
‘The salted caramel shortbread is going to be a hit,’ Denise announces as she deigns to join us shortly before lunch. It must be a hard life for the woman, being paid to stuff herself with biscuits. ‘Has Neville called while I’ve been out of the office?’
‘How would she know?’ Katey-Louise asks as Denise directs the question at me. ‘She’s only just got in herself.’
Denise arches an eyebrow at me. There’s a tiny shortbread crumb stuck to the corner.
‘She’s exaggerating,’ I tell the crumb, unable to tear my eyes away from it. ‘I was only a tiny bit late and I have a valid excuse.’ Denise and the crumb wait for my explanation. ‘I had an accident.’ I swivel in my chair and stick out my leg to showcase my plaster.
‘She was mugged,’ Adam says.
‘Mugged?’ Denise had been observing my injured knee with disdain but she sits up straighter now. The eyebrow crumb plops off onto the carpet. ‘Have you phoned the police?’
Whoa,